Like birth, I think the hour of our death is very meaningful, whether our earthly minds allow us to solve the puzzle or not. It is drenched in meaning, here and also somewhere else. The year, month, day, hour and second — it is already written for each of us.

My father, “Pops” and “Papa.”

I think I’m lucky in that I can see the light of that meaning, glowing like a street lantern illuminating my steps through a blackened night, but I can’t really articulate my grief. I am not able to explain what happens to me when it comes knocking. And that’s actually the hardest part.

I have accepted the death of my father, then mentor, then mother. My mind has yet to fully grasp what else it is I’m supposed to know about my devotion to each of them, about their part in the play of my life and about how and why we came to love each other.

Dad spent a lifetime in broadcasting and loved teaching us kids the ropes.

And with all three, feelings of great significance wash over me on certain days, like when they left or on dates of things we celebrated together. It starts off as a really strong feeling. I will wonder, what is it? What’s wrong? And then I notice the date, or a that a date is coming instead of the other way around. These are signposts I think, and evidence to some kind of intelligent communication from beyond.

Somedays I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a rabbit hole. “Mom, are you there?” I call out to myself in the quiet. I talk to all three of these souls like they are with me all the time. I’m not even embarrassed about it.

Me and my mentor, Alan Colmes in 2015.

Sometimes I’m stopped cold when their presence pops into my reality and I spin into another dimension. Like the reoccurring thought chasing me lately, that my mentor never saw me transform (as much, only just the beginning … and man, was he accepting!) into the stronger, taller and uniquely complex man I am today. I was a different person entirely when I saw him last. That hurts and like a razor cut it bleeds slowly and painfully. “But I look so different now,”I say softly as if he can hear me.

For my father, it is simply true that he is everywhere with me. If I’m having a bad day, I reach for his Minnesota Twins cap. I chose it after he died because it was the most worn. Dark sweat stains along the rim, knowing they were his made me feel close to him. I loved him enough that I feel like we never left each other, that instead he is now just slightly out of reach.

I think I’m getting there with my father and mentor. Not 100 percent, mind you, but I’m no longer in the weird stages of grief where you never know what to expect.

I’m not there for mom yet. A mom is such a big thing, yes? That’s part of it I’m sure.

“Mommy!” We all can imagine saying this, or feel the orphaned reality when we utter those words, or just you know, watch “Bambi.” Mom is mom all day, and she was important to me in so many ways and, and it is still so very new it seems.

And it is also true that I’m exhausted by grief, so I put it off until my body is begging me to stop. To turn off the music, shut down the laptop, to put away the pen and paper, switch off the lights, back away from the world and just grieve. Even then, “I don’t want to,” my mind will argue. “I’m busy!” “I can’t today. I’m too tired,” “hurts too much,” “I don’t like to cry,”on and on with the excuses of the mind. But in time I give in and tears flow a little bit.

It’s like trimming the hedges. You put it off by snipping a few clips here and there until at once you realize it’s grown tall enough to block your sun.

I imagine I could use a raging sob, which is very cathartic right? I’m just not sure where to find it. When is the last time you sobbed? I like the idea because it puts a focus on the physical and occurs mostly outside of the mind.

Sudden deaths like my father and mentor came easy. I shouldn’t say that, they came whether I wanted them to or not. The process began like a break in a dam. There wasn’t a second for debate on when this event would occur. The wave hit me the moment I learned. Like tripping and falling as the water slams your body further into the ocean floor, it is unexpected and without reserve. I lost myself in the news, but when someone is slowly dying over time, a pattern of grief emerges that becomes much more complex.

There is guilt and anger and all of the stages of grief, but they are entirely different when that someone spent so much time being completely vulnerable.

While alive, you grieve what they once were but you’re still celebrating their life. And in the end, every single breath. After they leave, you realize your small pond of grief has become an ocean. It feels overwhelming.

I know I need to take that time to open the door to the moment of her death. I haven’t done this yet. I have only experienced and then ran away from it. I think doing so will feel like making a conscious, though anxious decision to cliff dive. To leave earth for a bit flailing wildly into the unknown. To crash into the cool waters below, and to eventually heal.

I will. I will. I can’t just yet but I am looking forward to the time when I can tell my mind a story about the good, bad, ugly, great reality of all the memories that make up our relationship as mother and son.

I didn’t cry when I first saw her but I wanted to. I held it in for a bit in an effort to stay sober and soak in everything.

Changes.

Changes like the time I came back from living in Grand Forks for a few years to Fargo and I saw the back of my dad’s head sitting in the recliner. So much gray was pushing out and a lot less hair on that familiar head … it was striking.

I remember my next words so well they haunt me: “Man, he’s gotten old.” It sounded like a line out of an old book I read, and it felt robotic and unreal to utter it. But the moment felt very real.

And so did this Tuesday afternoon with mom. Only with her, I have seen it under a microscope and in slow motion.

I actually sped to the memory care center after my plane landed. I picked up my rental and zoomed out of the airport lot. I was starving, but there was no way I was going to make any stops before seeing her. I flew out of the car and ran to the sliding glass door, ran to the elevator, tapping my hands as I waited impatiently, and burst out of it when it reached her floor and ran to her room.

I have never done this before. A sense of urgency just came over me. I wanted to see her now. I felt like I was extremely late to something.

There she was, seated for dinner. Slumped over in her wheelchair, her nose dripping as it does all day, every day due to some of the medications she needs, her head drooping, her eyes staring deeply into nothingness. This is raw truth here, and it’s real and it hurts, but it’s what it is.

She did not acknowledge me in a traditional way. She did not speak, but her eyes told me not only that she knows me but also loves me.

She is vastly different this visit. And, of course, and it has been far too long. The biggest change since the last time I was here is her inability to stand on her own in any way. She also has a serious and marked forward lean making sitting in her wheelchair or at the table difficult or at the least uncomfortable.

I tenderly fed her dinner, wiping her nose, which drips like faucet as much as possible in between, and trying to hide my tears. But who was I kidding? I was sobbing.

Afterward, I wheeled her to the assisted living place in the far wing where she used to live what felt like another lifetime ago. We sat watching the wind take over the trees outside the big bay windows. When the breeze came through the doors as someone entered, she actually liked it — I was surprised. (She never used to.) I thought it felt fresh and good, too, because it’s often hot inside.

A little while later, we went to her room to watch the nightly news, and she laughed when I made fun of the anchor’s hair. The light comes in when you least expect it, making life surprisingly precious.

I gave her a strawberry shake then put lotion on her face and hands, so sweet like a little lamb, she lit right up after I did that; opened her eyes wide.

There was an utterly singular moment when I touched her face after the aides so gently and kindly helped to put her to rest. After a busy afternoon, a postlunch nap was needed. We all agreed. I chatted with a nurse about her little boy as Mom hit the pillow and went immediately lights out.

I had run to the car to get my phone charger and asked if they could swoop in and help me get her ready for her nap. They came, and I ran and came quickly back. It’s been like that. I mean, I’ve been feeling like I don’t have a minute to waste, kind of crazy-like.

She was put into the bed, and I was chatting with aide about my music choice, which filled the room. It is called peaceful piano on Spotify, I say; they leave. I grab a chair and scoot as close to her as possible as she rests in bed.

They’ve left and I’m hovering and leaning into the bed and caressing her head and I feel such tightness. And it reminds me of what it’s like feeling your child’s body when they are scared. You notice this. For me, it was very early, of course, they were hungry and maybe something else or there was pain or discomfort, but a child inside you even grows stiff and concerned, and it can be felt in a way that is exactly, like fear. This continues throughout life.

And it’s also true that it cannot be distinguished from anxiety, but it’s there, inside all of us, and we can feel it in each other without words. This is powerful before we have speech and becomes even more powerful after we have lost our words.

I need to be here, I heard in a booming voice inside my head.

The big joke about having voices in your head is that we all do. Obviously. They are busy trying to tell us who and what we are, but if we shut them out, we realize we already know who we are because we feel it. We don’t need it to be constantly defined as does the mind. And sometimes your own voice rings through, and that’s what I heard telling me I was in the right place and at the right time.

I do need to be here, and I’m saying this because I felt that fear and anxiety leave as I caressed her head. She was sleeping before but she needed me to pull out that fear. At least that’s what I want to believe.

Earlier on the second day, she grabbed for my hand when we were stopped by the stained glass in the chapel, a favorite quiet spot for us. She raised it to her lips and kissed it, which I found so deeply touching. As if to say, I appreciate you. Thank you for being here — this is how it felt.

This has been a really incredible visit, so far. Eye-opening changes, a sliver of hope and the time I need to take in how these changes are affecting her. I get the opportunity to feed her breakfast, lunch and dinner and that likely makes me feel better than her, though she’s adjusting to new puree meals and drinking plenty of fluids. But even just drinking those fluids, you can see her struggling to swallow.

Why are we allowed to suffer like this?

For what purpose is this pain?

She takes it all so fiercely. She is a fighter. She has a tremendous and powerful will to live. This can be seen like a flickering fire behind her eyes. It’s really alive inside of her.

Another moment I’ll not forget was when she whispered, “I need you,” as I was feeding her. I had just told her she was eating really great.

It’s much easier to stuff lately. And it’s not like I don’t have the energy to feel, it’s more like I’m making the conscious choice to avoid feeling much of anything that relates to the distance between us. Like wearing a life jacket in a rainstorm, it makes my inner child think I’m protected.

Something new has started where I can phone the head desk and they bring a phone to her as she awaits dinner. My sister thought of it and the staff doesn’t seem to mind.

They are able to help her put the phone to her ear, well, mostly, sometimes it starts to fade away. Those are the times I don’t get a good-bye or anything. Still, I listen to the ambient noise, and sometimes I hear her talking to others before the connection is lost.

Once I called and the woman that yabbers like she is singing was so loud, we barely got a word in. She’s more soft-spoken than ever, so that was pretty tough. Still, I hung up feeling pleased I’d reached her.

It’s strange knowing that you’ve lost someone when they are still here. It’s a funny feeling inside your bones. Like pins and needles jabbing you into a state of urgency. It’s like watching someone you love kayak down Niagara Falls over and over. You’d think that the terrified rushing feeling would wear off from over exposure, but there is no ease in intensity as time passes.

About two calls ago, I had a really good talk. She said, “I miss my babies,” and at one point, “I love you” to me, which makes me feel more alive, if that makes sense. It’s more than I can explain in words, it’s a sense of belonging to something bigger than everything here. It’s a belief in knowing peace.

This afternoon, I caught her again and the call went pretty good. I did most of the talking and praying and singing, but I think it mostly transmitted.

I drove home in the rain and thought about how much energy it can take to avoid feeling something that makes you sad. I decided it was less than the exhaustion despair brings. For now, I’m focused on the bits of sunlight that glimmer across the tree’s leaves as they twist and turn in the wind. There is a lot of beauty in those moments.

When it came to phone conversations with mom, I was always the one saying goodbye. This perhaps wasn’t the case as a child, but this is what I most remember. “Well, I’ll let you go,” and so on — so much so it just became a habit. After she became sick, it continued (despite the guilt) because I felt, I had to go.

– – – – –

Me: Hi Buddy!

Mom: Hi Buddy!

Me: I just called to say I love you.

Mom: Well, how nice!

Me: Ahh …

Mom: I miss you.

Me: I miss you, too!

– – – – –

And then a stage of immense awareness emerged.

That state, where I am now, is a place where I do not say goodbye until she initiates. I simply listen and share stories until she says she is ready to go.

Sometimes, we talk so long she literally forgets how to hang up the phone. (This happens more often on longer calls.) And unless we’re interrupted by ritual (pill time) or madness (someone’s wandered into her room) we talk and talk.

It seems so poignant — how putting a receiver to sleep can sometimes take so long.

I take so much for granted.

I listen to the clamoring attempts and when it doesn’t click, she’ll come back to say, “Hi”. Most of the time aware, though, sometimes not.

Worst case, I text a sibling to call and have the nurse assist while I stay on the line. (It makes an awful noise otherwise.)

All in all, this decision changed things a lot between us. So many hours simply being present with one another. Time spent of shared airspace in a way that wasn’t filled with needs. Neither one of us wanting to say or hear anything in particular from each other. But instead an awareness to just to be there. To experience whatever, together, minute by minute.

Very recently, however, she’s been taking the opportunity to say goodbye a lot sooner than she had been and for now, I’m taking its a good sign that she has other places to be, things to do and is doing OK.

I talk to her the same, if not more, but the conversations have felt slightly more urgent, shorter in length, and there is less for her to say, I feel. We’re focusing on the sentiment. And so, I have also started calling a little bit more often instead of what had become every night.

So, over the weekend, my brother, Chris, was visiting mom and set up a call for me. This seems to be the best way to reach her these days. I wish I could articulate just how much this change affects me, but I can’t seem to find the words.

A lot of tears lately. A lot of just missing her, craving that soft hand, warm voice, and loving smile.

After I picked up my new wheels Friday, I put the top down and pulled away the happiest man alive (again and again I seem to have these highlights lately) and I only managed to get a few miles away. Just before the freeway exit, I had to pull over.

Heaving sobs as I turned off the engine and shot out of the car to try to catch my breath, take in some fresh air and find out exactly what was happening.

Me and Dad.

As I slipped back into the soft bucket seat, I found Dad. That is, I could just feel his presence. He was with me, somehow, someway … and it made me quite literally trembly.

I could feel his energy, so unyielding, I could even smell him.

His sweat-stained Twins ballcap, worn with wear, sat in the seat next to me. ( I had been wearing it. ) I let my fingers slip across the fabric over and over.

This haunting force field was palpable and the strangest yet strongest mix of happy and sad I’ve ever experienced.

I had to hit the road in an attempt to avoid drive time (I didn’t), so I decided I would be OK. But for miles and miles, I cried and cried and cried, and I could swear at one point I felt his hand touch my shoulder.

It was the moment I was crossing the Bay bridge. The traffic was thick so we were all going slow. I happened to notice just how beautiful the sunlight looked as it streamed across the brilliant Pacific ocean, surrounding us on either side, the wind in my hair, the beautiful car body I was seated in. It all hit me like a ton of bricks just how damn lucky I was to be here. To be alive. To be enjoying a life he surely must be proud of.

Me and Mom.

I made it home and was hoping to talk to Mom. I had tried to call but didn’t get through.

So, the next day, when Chris asked if I wanted to talk her, I jumped at the opportunity.

It is utterly mind-blowing the way in which such lucidity can slip through the cracks, blooming like a fresh flower from a seed dropped onto what was thought to be barren land.

We sang, we prayed, we laughed and sometimes we just sat in silence. It was wonderful.

Toward the end, after we said goodbye, I just listened to the static making up the space in miles between us. I clung to it, actually — until the nurse came in and hung up her phone.

I think it’s creepy how unavailable actual human help has become. For the average person, it’s a dig to find a way to get in contact with anyone inside the most famous internet companies.

Imagine how powerful Twitter would be if an actual human answered a help desk phone? Or your direct emails? Or dms?

I realize reply emails, even when from a nonbot human entity, are not exactly warm and fuzzy and might be costly, but it would be a huge perk for users when problems arise, or if they need advertising help or assistance from being harassed online. A trained team (maybe small army) to take emails or DMs and try their best at customer service.

Instead, it’s always, “Look at this FAQ!” Or worse, you are sent to a “HELP” center where you type in your problem amidst volumes of other “solutions.”

The plight that brought me to this was a simple question about advertising with Facebook. As a sort of hobby, I run fan pages for all kinds of stuff, and sometimes I get “gifted” pages because the current creators/admins are tired of running them.

That’s how I got a page for lesbians over 30, from a very specific news channel, with which I found gratifying to work with. That was not the exact theme or page name, but I’m leaving it out because it’s not what this article is about.

Occasionally, I’ll spend small amounts of money to advertise something, mostly after I study the analytics I find interesting, and also to drive traffic to one destination or another.

Anyway, so I keep running into this problem where advertising was blocked as sexually explicit. And this page is not that kind of page.

To give you an idea, the last time it happened, it was a post for “walking group” for lesbians in their 60s. It was a great post that performed organically so well, I wanted to try to boost it, too.

It also happened on a post about Harvey Milk. In fact, it now happens every time, no matter what content is posted.

When you click on the policies, there is nothing in them to suggest walking groups are a violation — so one must assume Facebook is choosing to block lesbian content simply because they say they’re lesbians?

When you search for “contact” in the help section, you get a literal circle of death. At least, I did.

And all I want to know is, why is Facebook banning content that should not be banned.

I started to cry as I slowly peeled away the restrictive layer of clothing that is my binder, realizing this was the last day I would ever have to wear it again. What a strange mix of elation and contemplation.

I instantly recalled all the times I came home from something, immediately stripping away and relishing in the relief of its release when suddenly, or so it always felt, someone would call my attention back into the world.

Many times, it would be just as the article had come off. And I’d feel knocked down — even when it was my fault like for a pizza I forgot I ordered. Sometimes, I’d collapse to the floor. A mist would appear — out of nowhere — and I’d feel like crying, but I’d open the drawer just the same and fetch out a freshly laundered binder.

“This is my choice,” I often heard in my head, which at the time I thought was a sort of declaration: Like, “Hey buddy you wanted this, remember?” kind-of-thing.

I reflect on it now and wonder how can that be a choice? Wouldn’t saying that make it a sin? A choice? I don’t think so.

I think deeply to avoid tears; I take long walks into my consciousness to contemplate this existence. And I still don’t know what am I experiencing or why it has taken me so long to get here. And the way some kids are recognized by their parents and supported in their gender choices as babies makes the real sin of envy creep up.

But I think of my children and wonder how can I not be grateful for the life I have with them? How can I not be indebted to their incredible love and my family and friends and to all that has occurred to deliver me to this exact place at this exact right time? I wonder how can I better appreciate the “right now” and more importantly, how can I be more thankful?

As the binder awkwardly escaped my head, I swung it in circles above me and danced like John Travolta (or so I envisioned). Then, threw it on the floor triumphantly. But I quickly picked it back up, squinting to see the minuscule drops of blood, carefully examining the rubbery soft, sandpaper-like mix of fabric that made the garment so mysterious to me. The words, “How far I have come!” seem to leap from my head.

There’s much I don’t know about what lies ahead and yet so much has changed. And it is still evolving. Will it always feel this way? Am I taking enough time to look around on this trip down the rapids? Am I enjoying the ride?

I think about how lucky and how utterly blessed I feel.

I have moved far away from family for a chance to live this free. And everything couldn’t have turned out more perfectly.

I remember the day I decided I was leaving North Dakota. I was walking home from a guest lecture gig at the college wearing a jacket and tie and a mix of heat and angst had me feeling less than cheerful. Normally, I’d be happy for a rare chance to teach and if I had a reason for a suit and tie, but not on this day.

Out of nowhere, a woman slowed down and popped her head out the window. “Hey, I know who you are. Thank you,” she shouted.

“I’m sorry? ”

I stammered confusedly.

“I saw you on the news, and I think it’s terrible, anyway, thank you,” she hollered.

Both touched and annoyed, I thanked her as she drove off but don’t remember how. She was likely referencing a very short TV interview opinion/reaction thing I did about SB-2279. That’s the complicated bill that had just passed, disconnecting LGBT-identified North Dakotans from their civil rights.

Living through that was a frustrating hell, but this experience pierced me similarly. I remember thinking, “I want to go somewhere where I blend,” as I walked the rest of the way home.

And here I am now, in such a place! I’m not weird here. And I found a job I love more than anything I have ever experienced. I work for amazing, inspiring people with extraordinarily bright minds and hearts to match. I have re-connected with and made new, quality friends — the kind of folks that are there for you on moving day. And all in less than a year from that sweaty walk home.

I’ve traveled more of the world than I ever dreamed possible. I learned small parts of a fascinating language and a lot about an amazing culture, which now, like the company I work for, will always remain close to my heart.

Still, in fact, far too much fear and trepidation await this next important step. And while I’m not getting a new womb or risking life and limb with something untested like in that famous film, I am taking very real steps to modify my body in a radical way.

Will it “fix” everthing? Of course, not. But it will give me the freedom to look the way I want.

I’ve always been one of the boys. I was a fish-catching, frog holding, tree-climbing, all-star wresting, crunch tackle — far and above any “tomboy” girl, too. In fact, tomboys weren’t generally fond of me. They seemed to relish in a descriptor I’d narrow my eyes and scoff at.

My friends that were boys themselves could never explain my club card, why I was there or how exactly I seem to not only fit in but often lead group discussions in way that was pleasing to the others. But it just was and we all knew it.

Somewhere just before age 13, I lost my membership exclusivity. It was sudden and overnight yet. I have no single memory, just a mix of images of boys ackwardly asking girls to dances and girls acting weird and me falling in the cracks between.

I want to again effortlessly belong. Liking biking hands free. Once you learn, you never forget how.

I want to slip on a favorite T-shirt — like you do — and feel healthy and adjusted. Man, I can’t even imagine how good that will be, and it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve felt it.

And I know a choosing a bathroom will still take courage, but it will never hurt as much as living inauthentically as I did. I know that in the end, I will pass and eventually, people will likely leave me to both pee and be. But really, this isn’t about that.

It’s about tossing that binder in a burner and continuing to walk with my head held high. (How am I blessed with such confidence I wonder? God bless my mother!) And keeping it there knowing that I am doing the right thing in letting my body better reflect the “me” I feel I am.

As for this recovery, it will get better. And as I find my way, I’ll feel like I’ll be able to look back and laugh about all of this.

I understand that many can’t understand the pain or the fact that I’ve taken some of the steps to create it. I know this because I’m realistic but still confident that it is the right decision for me, to go to these efforts because it’s important that I present myself in a way I need to breathe easy.

And honestly, even if I die doing this, know that it was something I felt I had to do.

Preface to reader: I originally planned to my make my second post one of the first ones I had made detailing my talks with my mom, who has primary progressive aphasia — a language disorder that involves changes in the ability to speak, read, write and understand what others are saying — and posts about them on social media.

I found, however, that gaining access to older posts is something I’m not yet well-versed on. So, in the meantime, I’ve included this and will make my best attempt to find the oldest post for my next submission:

When it came to phone conversations with mom, I was always the one saying goodbye. This perhaps wasn’t the case as a child, but this is what I most remember. “Well, I’ll let you go,” and so on — so much so it just became a habit. After she became sick, it continued (despite the guilt) because I felt, I had to go.

—

Me: Hi Buddy!

Mom: Hi Buddy!

Me: I just called to say I love you.

Mom: Well, how nice!

Me: ahh …

Mom: I miss you.

Me: I miss you, too!

—

And then a stage of immense awareness emerged.

That state, where I am now, is a place where I do not say goodbye until she initiates. I simply listen and share stories until she says she is ready to go.

Sometimes, we talk so long she literally forgets how to hang up the phone. (This happens more often on longer calls.) And unless we’re interrupted by ritual (pill time) or madness (someone’s wandered into her room) we talk and talk.

It seems so poignant -— how putting a receiver to sleep can sometimes take so long.

I take so much for granted.

I listen to the clamoring attempts and when it doesn’t click, she’ll come back to say “hi”. Most of the time she’s aware, though, sometimes not.

Worst case, I text a sibling to call and have the nurse assist while I stay on the line. (It makes an awful noise otherwise.)

All in all, this decision changed things a lot between us. So many hours simply being present with one another. Time spent of shared airspace in a way that wasn’t filled with needs. Neither one of us wanting to say or hear anything in particular from each other. But instead an awareness to just to be there. To experience whatever, together, minute by minute.

Very recently, however, she’s been taking the opportunity to say goodbye a lot sooner than she had been and for now, I’m taking its a good sign that she has other places to be, things to do and is doing OK.

I talk to her the same if not more, but the conversations have felt slightly more urgent, shorter in length, and there is less for her to say, I feel. We’re focusing on the sentiment. And so, I have also started calling a little bit more often instead of what had become every night.

Preface: My mother has a rare brain disorder called primary progressive aphasia (PPA) is a language disorder that involves changes in the ability to speak, read, write and understand what others are saying. It is often associated with memory loss and dementia, and though mom has only rarely not known who I was for a short time, she does have some difficulty with other memory issues. She needs round-the-clock care, and thankfully for us, she’s was able to get inside a memory care unit in Fargo, N.D.

I’ve been detailing my nearly nightly calls with her for quite some time on Facebook. So many friends have asked me to publish, that I’ve just decided to do it. If only because it may help someone else going through the same thing.

This is my most recent post and my next submission will be the furthest back I can find. Then, perhaps, I can bring you, the reader, slowly back to present day. A window into this world of the unknown.

When Mom answered the phone, I started singing, “I just called to say I love you,” and she busted out laughing, then sang along.

Some studies find music can help brain disorders. I don’t know why, but it does seem to help and more importantly, to comfort.

We chatted a bit, and the conversation kept circling back to my visit! It seems she is just as excited to see me as I am to see her. We sang “One Bread, One Body,” “Be Not Afraid” and “How Great Thou Art” -— and she did well.

One of my friends lost her mother last night. She is also suffering similarly. And she is devastated.

The time.

As she told me at the time that her mother passed, I felt like an invisible stake pierced my heart. Wh? There’s nothing to say, really — only that just as we focus on things like time, they are entering the timeless.

I’m trying to console as best as I can, but I’m also secretly observing the process … just short of preparing. I’m in a sort of heightened state of awareness.

What will it feel like? How will I remain inside of a parentless existence?

All of this fuels my intention to be present and open to experiencing all that I can, with what I have, from where I am, for as long as we have left. …

It makes me feel proud for sucking the marrow out every single time I talk to her. For pushing aside all of the life’s distractions, for closing my eyes and pressing the receiver to my sweaty ear and for listening to her words with my heart and mind.

I remain hopeful in between our talks, and I’m grateful for all that I’ve been given.